Category Archives: sons and mothers

A daughter-in-law dedication

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My Saturday in SoCal has not been nearly as eventful as this. My son sent these pics from New Haven where he went cross country skiing in thirty-eight inches of snow. I hope everyone is OK and hasn’t lost power or anything!

This is my 200th post–what a milestone! It seems only right that I dedicate this to S, my DIL. She badgered encouraged me to blog, to share my thoughts and snarky commentary (and not bug her and my son so much??) and it was my son who set up the WP account. (I’ll save those accolades for his March birthday post-plenty of time to get your hankies washed, ironed, and perfumed–they’ll be drenched with tears. A mommy’s love is fierce, y’all. Just a warning.) 

miljokeI hope I’m not a bad MIL. I had two of the worst mothers-in-law you could imagine-three if you count my tugboat man’s evil stepmother. The first one wasn’t really that bad; she suffered from a lot of medical problems so I’ll give her a pass for that reason-but she was just a precursor, a forerunner to a doozy of a bitch. Hub’s mom; a laconic thrower of backhanded one-liners–a future post’ll share some of my most memorable experiences.

MIL noteHopefully, that’s taught me not to be SO terrible, but as mom of an only child who happens to be a son whose nickname is Angel Boy and on whom the sun rises and sets, you can bet there needs to be a bit of benevolence, compassion, understanding, and sensitivity on both sides. There’s a def learning curve.

(I’m sure she fondly remembers our house rule of “no cohabitation without documentation” before they were married.)

S has a great sense of humor and a highly developed wit–a great way to deal with a MIL! Right, S?

Although she did recommend I watch “Monster-in-Law”…do you think she was subtly trying to tell me something?

Is my DIL trying to tell me something?

Is my DIL trying to tell me something?

S is London-born with a Ph.D. in Neuroscience from Brown. She’s opened up my world to lots of cool things like Absolutely Fabulous, Gossip Girl, and Downton Abbey. She’s a girly girl in addition to all that brain power. We’ve had a lot of fun together: shopping, getting manis, and making candles. I never had a girl child so it’s been a lot of fun doing things that my mom and I did. As a family, we’ve all gone hiking and camping together–it was DIL who taught me how to “pop a squat”–a skill that’s come in handy more times than I care to mention!

I can’t share what she does-YET-but as soon as I can, you can be sure I’ll shout it to the heavens with PRIDE!

DIL earned a special title.

Isn't she totes adorbs?

Isn’t she totes adorbs?

When she calls (which she should do more often), I’m alerted by the screen telling me it’s Angel Girl.

Thank you, DIL!

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The boy who is my heart. So much depends on a yellow steamroller

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An homage to William Carlos Williams
The Yellow Steamroller

So much depends
upon

a yellow
steamroller

buried
in the dirt 
behind the shed
On a bitterly cold afternoon, my tugboat man and I embarked on our annual yard cleanup project. I raked all the pine needles shaken loose during the fury of Alaska-borne winds that roared down the coast to Southern California while he trimmed the eucalyptus and mulberry trees.
Metal rake clanged against metal.
I saw bright yellow igniting the dirt and pine needles suffused it with a gleaming radiance through the brown. steamroller1
I threw down the rake, crouched on all fours, and with bare fingers dug through the wet fecund soil to uncover an abandoned yellow Matchbox toy from the spot where there once was a sandbox that my son’s dad  built for him when we first moved to this house in 1985.
I discover in situ a three-inch wide artifact imbued with all the wonder of my perfect child. 
I gently brushed away twenty-five years of encrusted soil and sand.steamroller2
sandboxI was engulfed in a wave of memory. I was there. I saw him–my four-year-old son in this beautiful huge sandbox filled with fresh, clean sand.  I saw him as I often watched him from the bay window in the kitchen overlooking the backyard where I would wash dishes and keep an eye on him, keeping him safe–always keeping him safe–as he played in the sand with his dump trucks and cherry pickers and this steam roller and his buckets and plastic cups and forks and sticks with his cats and dog always near, and the loveliness of the memory set me on my heels and I cried.
Happy tears for the exquisite soft rosy glow of healthy well-fed cheeks, the deep Imperial jade green eyes, the curls that were my curls, my boy, my angel love.
The boy whose every breath contains a whisper of the intangible all encompassing LOVE I possess for this being who was a part of me before he was a part of the earth and sun and sky and sand.
The boy who is my heart.
I shut my eyes tight to keep the pictures from disappearing, but the ephemeral/evanescent impressions floated away with the tears that spilled out for the remembering of the beauty of a luminous child playing in a sandbox, singing to himself and constructing sand sculptures of the future, or, in his case, building words and spinning thoughts and erratica.
Those grains of sand that between his fingers mashed and smashed into forts and tunnels were the detritus of the granite from whence his brain reformed them grain by grain into skyscrapers of words and sentences that flow like a path from the back door to the sandbox.looking down from the hill
The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.

UK SPK™- Part Two

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Since my son met and married a girl from London, his language has become peppered with UK SPK™, which I define as words and phrases he’s appropriated from his wife, her family, and friends. Because I like to be as trendy and hip as he is, if only to annoy him, I have incorporated quite a few into my daily life.

When everyone was here for Thanksgiving, my DIL (daughter-in-law) and her sister left behind quite a few gems to share.

I really love this one. You need to use rinse if you listen to a song over and over again. “I love Christina Perri‘s song, ‘Jar of Hearts‘ and I’ve been rinsing it.” Or…to use something a lot; “I’ve given my credit card a rinse this holiday season.” …or to play Candyland with your kids until it wears out, or to read the same bedtime book over and over.

Spunk is a very interesting word. For us who speak American English, it means courage or spirit or full of energy, as in  ”She’s full of spunk” or “She’s a spunky girl. However,  for Brits–spunk takes on a WHOLE different meaning!  it’s a slang term for semen. Imagine the shock on DIL’s face when a man at a business meeting told her she had a lot of spunk and she thought he was sexually harassing her!

Cheers–not as a prelude to lifting a glass or a toast, but as a way to say thank you. It’s spoken in monotone with no inflection. Let’s say someone passed you a bowl of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. You would say “cheers”. It’s low-key.

To DIL and her sister, swish means cool–to us, swish is a disparaging term for a gay man and denotes an effeminate personality.

Reem = sexy, great, fantastic. Be reem, see reem, look reem. “Johnny Depp is so reem!”

Error or to drop an error, which means to make a mistake. “I dropped an error and left something in the car”.  The family is sitting around the dinner table and somebody makes a mistake in etiquette and one would say, “Error” and then everyone laughs.

To cotch is to relax, chill, take a rest. Describing something as a cotch means it was relaxed and chilled out. A really great cotch is cotchtastic.

Amazeballs is the same on both sides of the pond. Amazing, obvs.

The last and best one comes with its own hand gesture.

cringe

This is an example. This is how you do it!

The word is cringe–but it’s not pronounced the same way –/krinj/–as if we meant to bend one’s head and body in a servile manner.

This is how to pronounce it the  UK SPK™  way.

/kr-AWW-nJ/ drawing out the w and j sound. This is the perfect word to use when someone says something really unfunny and then everything goes silent, or when someone goes on and on about something which is really boring, or when someone makes an unwanted comment.

“OMG, gurrrl, I can’t believe that Phoebe got wasted and fell down the stairs naked in front of her brother-in-law. That was cringe. Totally cringe.”

What makes cringe totes amazeballs is that, to be accurate, it needs to be accompanied by a hand gesture that is very similar to the Wendy Williams‘s “how you doin”, but with one hand.

So to review, when you find yourself in a perfect situation to use cringe, you’d lift your right hand, (or the hand that’s not holding a vodka marty), and make that WW or “claw” gesture. Got it? Practice makes perfect!

(Check out UK SPK™ Part One)

When DIL/sister were here, we all rinsed “Jar of Hearts”.

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Daily Prompt: In Loving Memory and The Last Word

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OK, it’s  kinda creepy to write my own obit but I used to write copy at a local TV station and one of my jobs was to call the county and troll the newspapers (way before the internet) to learn  if anybody “important” had died and write the obit so this is not a new concept to me. It’s also a device therapists use to prove some kind of point in couples therapy–I’m not sure what exactly, as I’ve never been to therapy, although many have suggested it! And I do mean many.

Princess Rosebud of Enchanted Seashells is dead. Her stupid ass tugboat captain husband went out to sea and never came home. She was polishing her ten-carat diamond purchased with the insurance money, took a good look at it under the loupe to make sure there wasn’t any dirt in the crevices, tripped over one of her many cats; the diamond flew into the air, her mouth opened to scream, good old gravity caused the trajectory of the diamond to end up in her open mouth, and she choked on it and died.  When her son finally called the police to make a welfare check, the body was unrecognizable because the   eight cats and six dogs had been VERY hungry. The good news is that the swallowed diamond was left intact and looked none the worse for wear.

Daily Prompt: Audience of One

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Picture the one person in the world you really wish were reading your blog. Write her or him a letter.

Dear Mommy,

Your little Princess Rosebud is very very mad at you. You are not here anymore and for that reason I understand that you can’t defend your actions, but I’m still super duper mad at you anyway!

Here’s why:

1. How could you be so stupid as to travel all the way to France, actually enter the original Chanel Store on Rue Cambon, and only buy a scarf. A pretty scarf to be sure, but just a SCARF, a worthless square of fabric!! What good does that do me? You went to France in the seventies; if only you had been a better mother, you would have known that your only daughter would one day be obsessed with Chanel. A good mommy–a better mommy than you were–would have known that and would have made sure I had all my wishes fulfilled. At this point, it would be a VINTAGE bag. I HATE YOU! [Cue sound of door slamming-- just like the good old days.]

2. And another thing, how dare you die before your grandson got his Ph.D. HOW DARE YOU! That was incredibly selfish of you. You know how much he loved you and how he called both of us “Mom” and both of us would answer, “Which one do you want, honey?” I’m the one that had to buy him an Hermes tie and write a note to him telling him that if you were still alive, this is what you would want him to have because you are so proud of him and what he had accomplished. [Again with the I hate you and door slam sound effect].

3. You would totes love the captain. He would totes love you too, but he’s only heard stories about how wonderful you were. He had kind of a crappy mom and you would have filled that hole in his heart.

How could you die and leave us all alone??

Love,
Your daughter, Princess Rosebud

 

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Abandoning the mother ship

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pumpkin, pumpkin stew

Soon to be pumpkin stew

DIL and sister wife left this morning to drive back up to SF. I still have my son until tomorrow. He flies out mid-morning to the east coast and I’m not looking forward to the thirty-five minute drive and the lunacy of the airport. At its best it’s not pleasant. Now they’re undergoing major construction delays and it’s another level of Hell.  For the moment, home is reminiscent of the old days; he’s sitting at the dining room table with a computer surrounded by piles of books, only this time he’s not writing a report or research paper, he’s grading essays.

Young Yale Professor

Photo of a Yale professor in action

I can’t believe this little sk8r boy of mine goes to work and fifteen college freshman call him Professor Angel Boy. Of course, they don’t REALLY call him Angel Boy, but I think they  should. It’s hard to wrap my brain around the concept. It’s mind boggling. Especially since he still derives the greatest pleasure by shocking me with offensive earsplitting and vulgar expulsions of intestinal gas that serves as his initial form of communication when he opens the front door (Insert loud breaking wind sounds here) “Hi, mom, I’m home!” or belching as commentary while we’re enjoying a lovely meal at the dinner table, like Thanksgiving. Apparently, my laughing is an ineffective method of dissuading that kind of behavior. Sometimes I tell him he’s disgusting but he finds that a compliment rather than a criticism. His wife thinks he’s funny too; even the captain finds him humorous, shaking his head, “That’s our boy!” almost, no, not almost–completely proud of him– so it’s hopeless. The dichotomy between his academic braininess and his juvenile antics is-uh-refreshing. It’s no wonder I treat him like he’s still in the third grade. It’s as if he never left elementary school with the stupid arm farts and the other robust sounds and smells that emanate from all of his orifices. I keep my fingers crossed that when he meets with his department heads or his publisher that he remembers all the lessons in good manners we practiced and he only acts out here as the living embodiment of the prodigal son. Like I said, fingers crossed. 

Moroccan Pumpkin Stew

Smells DELICIOUS

I’m in the kitchen baking another loaf of Whole Wheat Bread. Tonight we had Moroccan Pumpkin Stew (recipe below) with steamed brown rice and Seared Ahi ‘cos I have to make sure he gets enough protein.

It’s kind of cold, damp, and foggy; after dinner we made a fire and  played Scrabble. He won, of course–232 to 219.scrabble

An assortment of desserts; apple pie, black bean brownies, oatmeal cookiesapple pie, black bean brownies, oatmeal cookies

Beautiful flowers from my Angel Boy

Moroccan Pumpkin Stew

  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 2 medium onions, peeled and cut in large chunks
  • 1 medium carrot, peeled and cut in large chunks
  • 6 small potatoes, well-scrubbed but not peeled, cut in half
  • 1-1/2 cups fresh pumpkin, peeled and cut in large chunks
  • 1 tablespoon freshly grated ginger
  • 1 clove garlic, minced
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
  • 1-1/2 teaspoons ground coriander
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
  • 1 cinnamon stick
  • 1-1/2 cups canned tomato, chopped
  • 1 cup water
  • Salt and pepper to taste
  • 2 tablespoons raisins

Heat the oil in a large heavy saucepan over medium high heat. Add the onions, carrot, potato, and pumpkin and saute for 5-10 minutes, stirring from time to time. When vegetables have softened, add the ginger and garlic. Continue to saute for 2-3 minutes, then add the turmeric, coriander, cumin and cinnamon stick. Cook for another 5-8 minutes, then add the canned tomato and 1 cup of water. Bring to a simmer, season with salt and pepper, then add the raisins. Allow to cook for 18-25 minutes until all vegetables are soft – but don’t overcook. Serve over or with brown rice.

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The real meaning of Thanksgiving. Enjoy!

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From one of the funniest blogs out there,  My Life as Lucille, the absolute best quote about Thanksgiving from my secret crush, Jon Stewart.

Thanksgiving Quote
I celebrated Thanksgiving in an old-fashioned way. I invited everyone in my neighborhood to my house, we had an enormous feast, and then I killed them and took their land.~Jon Stewart

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Have rubber gloves, will travel

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The tools of my trade

I’m sitting here alone in my living room, watching Lark Rise to Candleford whilst stroking the smooth black quilting of my new acquisition, my pet Chanel. I spent the entire day cleaning the house to get ready for son, DIL, and sister wife. I know it’s juvenile to call my son’s wife’s sister, “sister wife”,  but it annoys him and that makes it all worthwhile!

I think it started in 1998 when my son started college and moved just down the road a bit to have a “dorm experience” at UCSD. He lucked out with a nice boy for a roommate, but their room rapidly deteriorated. Landfill would probably be the best way to describe it. My son, the animal lover, left food outside his window for the birds, which of course brought rats, which of course he thought was cool, and kept feeding them until whoever was supposed to be in charge put an end to it.

I had gone to Bed, Bath & Beyond with the required list from school, checking off all the items that he couldn’t live without; extra long twin bed sheets, blankets, all American boy plaid comforter, a little plastic container to transport his shampoo and other toilet items to the shared bathrooms, and a large bag to collect the laundry he would bring home. Each item I threw in the basket and checked off the list was another knife to my heart and another tear rolled down my cheek. My baby angel boy was leaving. There would be no more kids trooping in to skate the halfpipe in our yard, no more boys to make cookies and smoothies for, no more driving everyone around ‘cos I was pretty much the only stay-at-home mom.

Never again would the captain and I be sneaky and follow him to his prom to make sure he was where he was supposed to be. Oh, how I long for the good old days!

UCSD is 24.5 miles away but he was only seventeen and had never been away from home unless you count a week at sixth grade camp. I worried night and day. I worried about what I did know and I worried about what I DIDN’T know he was doing. I would drive down with a care package and because I couldn’t stand it, I brought my vacuum, rubber gloves, Comet, and bleach. I was their personal maid. I didn’t do it all that often, and I don’t know how he felt about it, but I felt better. I could not stand to think he was living in that environment. When he got back from his junior year abroad in Germany, he moved into a pre-war apartment that was owned by a friend of the captain. On a semi-regular basis, I’d haul down my vacuum and other cleaning tools, and oh, yes, a pair of rubber gloves, and clean up for him. My rationale was that he was working so hard maintaining good grades that he didn’t really have time to waste on things like cleaning his toilet or doing his laundry. You do not want to know what the stove looked like, you really don’t. I scraped a couple inches of dried cheese, beans, eggs, and grease off the burners.

He’d come in the kitchen every half hour of so and say, “Good job, momma!” “I didn’t think that stuff would come off.”

“Did you even try?”

“Nope, I left it for you. Hey, I’m hungry, did you bring food?”

You might read this and think I’m joking, but I’m not. This is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday. The mold in his refrigerator should have been analyzed-the scientific world missed an opportunity to discover a new cure for something. How he didn’t end up with staph or botulism I’ll never know.

My angel boy was accepted to Johns Hopkins for graduate school. I flew back there–gloves packed in my suitcase–to clean his apartment. By then he was married to DIL, and she was just as enthusiastic to have me scrubbing their floors as my son was! One year the captain came along, and we worked as a team to give their home a thorough going over. The cap even moved the stove. We left no stove unturned, as it were.

After he left JH for Yale, I continued to follow them about the country to literally clean up behind them wherever they are, whether it’s Providence or New Haven. My friend is an RN and she gave me a box of rubber gloves to bring with me. I’m certainly the butt of many jokes, I’m sure. I was at the San Diego airport last year and the TSA agents were looking through my bag and when I explained what I was doing with the rubber gloves, she had to call over a co-worker so they could all laugh with at me!

There’s no moral to this story. There’s really no point to this story, either. I’m just the kind of mom who does things like that.

Winner, winner, winner! Liebster Award

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One of my new besties, a very lovely lady who writes Tonettejoycefoodfriendsfamily, nominated me for the prestigious Liebster Award. This is a wonderful and unexpected honor, albeit a teensy bit sad, because it’s meant to draw attention to deserving blogs (the happy part) who have less than 200 readers (the sad face part). However, I will carry on with a smile as the glass half full kinda gal I am, and proceed with the rules.

Rules
I need to nominate 11 other under-appreciated blogs with less than 200 followers. Hey guys, I appreciate you! Please visit them and give them some love because they are very interesting to read and are authored by brilliant and creative writers. Some have a bit more than 200 but I really enjoy them so much I wanted to help others make the discovery, and I think I actually have chosen 12, but whatever, I never like to follow rules.  And since most of the time I believe the world revolves around me (well, it does around MY house!) and it’s all about me, I can mess with the rules just a bit. Next comes 11 juicy tidbits about myself, then answer 11 questions sent to me, and create 11 questions for my chosen group.

Eleven random facts about ME you really want to know!

1. My grandfather was a rabbi

2. I was in the movie “Stuntman”

3. I fell down a manhole when I was three-years-0ld

4. I once interviewed Bob Hope

5. I know someone who knows someone who went to the Skyfall premiere

6. I love animals more than 90% of all the humans on Earth

7. I’m from the midwest

8. I could probably have a big win on Jeopardy-my head is full of useless information

9. I’ve taught school

10. My husband says I use a shovel like a man (he meant it as a compliment; I was not amused)

11. I haven’t eaten meat since I was 16-years-old

I nominate:

The Fur Files 

Snipewife 

Beach Treasures and Treasure Beaches 

Michelle at Play

Life on Wry

Red Dirt Kelly

Jewels for All

Better Half Weddings

Seashells by Millhill

Misifusa’s Blog

Midlife Crisis Crossover

Elyses’s Life as I Know It

These are the questions that I had to answer:

Where is the farthest you have even been from where you were born? Not sure which is further from Detroit; Germany or Greece, but I’ve been to both

Do you live now where your family lived? My mom and dad and I moved from the mid west to San Diego, and my brother lives in on the west coast but not nearby; don’t keep in touch very much with the rest of the family

Do you like to live in the city or the country? I like where I live now, near the beach with a bit of hills, and the city about 30 minutes away. I want a little bit of everything!

Do you prefer to visit the city or the country? Definitely the country– to go hiking, camping, skiing. The city is only good for shopping

In what ways do you consider yourself the most creative?(Name as many ways as you’d like.)

I think I’m a pretty creative gluer of seashells and I try to put words together like I arrange my shells and rocks and beach glass

What do you see yourself doing in 5 years? I would like to build my copy editing/proofing business and maybe have the two books I’m currently working on done and published as well as the reality show I want to pitch to ANYONE and you’ll be seeing me on all the talk shows looking very fashionista

What would you like to try that you have not done before? Ski without being petrified of going too fast and falling.

Is there any place in particular that you have never seen that you would like to visit? France

What would you change about the world if you had one quick wish? No animal or child abuse

Rank these(1,2,3,4):books, music, sports, movies You did it for me, I would keep them arranged exactly the same!

What are your 3 favorite holidays? (Whatever you celebrate) My son’s birthday, Christmas, Hannukah, wedding anniversary (I chose 4)

Here are my questions for you: 

1. How old were you when you first learned to read?

2. Name two of your favorite books.

3. What’s your favorite holiday dessert?

4. What is a Merchant Marine?

5. Who is your role model?

6. Who is your favorite movie star?

7. Do you make new year’s resolutions?

8. What’s cluttering up your life?

9. Do you drive a car or a truck?

10. Do you know how to change the battery in a smoke alarm?

11. What is your best home remedy for a sore throat?

What would I tell my twenty-year-old self?

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I’ve been inspired by all the interesting, poignant, witty, and funny entries so I decided to add my own two cents. I discovered #genfab on Twitter and would join the FB group, but I can’t figure out where it is!  This week they’re doing a blog hop on the topic “writing a letter to your 20-year-old self”. Here’s what I have to say. I’ve also included links to some other posts at the bottom of this page for your reading pleasure.

1. Hey girl! Be a mouthy bitch sooner rather than later. Stop letting everyone push you around. Develop your Napoleon complex right now; don’t wait!

2. Stay out of the sun. You don’t need to lay out at the beach and tan for six hours a day, seven days a week–from June to September. Cocoa butter and baby oil are a lethal combo. Thank goodness there’s Botox and fillers, but you can’t imagine the rest of the damage too much tanning can do. A little spot of basel cell carcinoma will be in your future along with some Moh’s surgery and a few sutures. You could have avoided that. Stop refusing the straw hat mommy gave you.  She’s a nurse. She knows.

3. Be nicer to mommy. (Yes, you and I called her mommy ’til the end.) Don’t roll your eyes at me; really. Be nice. As soon as you have your own baby, you’ll understand 99% of everything she said that you pretended not to hear. You will really miss her when she’s gone, trust me.

4. For one second and one second only, peer inside this crystal ball and see all the things you’re NOT gonna do: become a famous ballet dancer like Anna Pavlova, go to Val D’Isere to study French and ski, spend the summer in Minnesota studying the wolf population while actually living among them, move to LA to pursue a real acting career, study harder and go to med school, study harder and go to law school, marry the guy with the massive trust fund, get that boob job–and then STOP thinking about what you DON’T have and what you DIDN’T do and focus on what you DO have. That will end up being your most favorite thing to say to people–whether it’s regrets about the past or food they shouldn’t eat.

5. You are going to be the luckiest girl in the world. You are going to give birth to the most wonderful angel child that ever existed in the universe. He will be a planned for, wanted, loved, and adored boy– even before the very first moment you realized you were actually pregnant. As you will tell him on his twenty-first birthday, every breath he has taken has given you joy. You will be lucky enough to be a stay-at-home mom and never miss one smile, one milestone, one MEAL. You will be the one to nurture his every interest, teach him to read and watch his world open up through books. You’ll teach him to love animals, to be kind and gentle, to care about the environment, to have a voice, to stand up for what is right no matter what. You are going to be a great mom except for those couple of times that you weren’t. We won’t discuss that. No one’s perfect.

6. When you’re a mother-in-law, you can take all some none of the credit for his choice of a brilliant, outspoken, funny, gorgeous DIL (who also happens to have very curly hair that she diligently straightens.) Now’s the time to give DIL a major shout out for kick starting my foray into blogging and social media. Thank you, S! Now go make J his dinner. Ha ha.

7. Sit down for this one. It’s painful. All My Children will end. I know, right?

8. You’re gonna marry two guys; one will become BioDad and the other will be the best stepdad in the world. Your past and present husbands will become friends and spend time together. (A really, really long future blog, maybe even a book.)

9. Now that I think of it, I’ll allow a moment of sadness to recall how you didn’t get that major role in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard at the Old Globe in San Diego. You are really, really going to want that, and you were really, really awesome at the audition, and not getting it will be a huge disappointment.

10. And finally, when you’re in your late, late late forties, and by that I mean fifties, you’ll still act like you’re 20, OK, I mean 16–oh all right then, 13! You’re gonna love Katy Perry, Christina Perri, Adele, Gossip Girl, Hello Kitty (don’t ask, just know that it’s in your future), anything sparkly (especially diamonds), animal print, Chanel, and have a very healthy obsession with seashells that will bring you fame and fortune as Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife, and you’ll meet a few like-minded witty chickas– whilst writing something called a blog–

More articles in the blog hop…

The Fur Files Looking backward: What we’d tell our 20-year-old selves (After The Kids Leave) Dear 20-Year Old Me (Chloe of the Mountain) To Marci, On Your 20th Birthday (The Midlife 2nd Wife) Having a talk with my 20-year-old self (Midlife Crisis Queen) A Heart-to-Heart with 20 Year Old Me (Books is Wonderful) What Would You Tell your Twenty-Year-Old Self? (Empty House, Full Mind) Dear 20 Year Old Me (Kids Are Grown) Back to the Future (Employee to EmployMe) Callow, Clueless, and Cruising Paris (Daily Plate of Crazy) Happy Birthday, Twenty-Year-Old Me (Not a Supermom)

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